


And I Will Always Hate You

by radiobread



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Crack, F/M, North Yankton, Pre-Canon, Wherein Trevor meets her first, the good ol' 80s, why the fuck does this exist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 04:52:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6890944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radiobread/pseuds/radiobread
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trevor knows her first. The world doesn't have enough soda pop. Life is full of surprises (bad ones).</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I Will Always Hate You

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my docs for ages, and I was bored so like? Here it is, I guess. This is rlly weird and if you're mad at me for it that's okie dokie.

In the streets, America is falling in love with itself all over again. Ceaselessly, the parades beat on over dirty streets, and they beat into the hearts of each child and drunken uncle that watches on. Desperately trying to remember why it is that we celebrate this drunken holiday every year without rest. They won’t remember, either. We just do it.

Amanda remembers. And Amanda remembers because contrary to what her friends will try and have you believe, she’s a smarter cookie than she appears. Which mostly means that she passed basic high school history without struggle, but still she likes to give herself a little more credit than that. She doubts that any of those people celebrating on T.V know what they’re drinking to, anyhow. Still, the vomity colors and  mass hysteria beyond this motel television are somewhat more interesting than here.

Here, it’s fucking ghosts. Empty bars. The hotdog wrappers and the shards of glass were already there. Things are nasty and unlivable because they always _were_ nasty and unlivable. Not because of some tired ass holiday.

Maybe she expects for it to be different, if she shuts her eyes real tight and leaves the motel room for a moment. She opens them. The streetlights are too bright, and she is just as sure as ever that nobody has ever been here but her. June is kissing goodbye, and it’s warm outside.

She’s going to smoke, but she keeps her cigarettes inside the folds of her boots nowadays because the thievery rate is so high around here, and people don’t often hold guns to your head for shoes. But she’s barefoot right now, and there’s a slight jingling coming from within her bra. Quarters, she hopes. One of those could score her eCola, if the machine isn’t spitting out dust and oil. That is, if these _are_ quarters.  

_Please god, please you traitorous fairytale, please give me some goddamn quarters._

And praise be to god, they aren’t. She thumbs them into her hand, ignoring the uncomfortable warmth they’re now emitting, and moves off toward that faithful old corner of the motel where the drink machines are. She finds it without mystery, and so has someone else. So like the good little girl that she isn’t anymore, Amanda approaches him gingerly and waits her turn.

Like the good little boy that he probably isn’t, he buys his drink and moves past her without a second look. An eCola. Excellent choice, random stranger.  So comes her turn. She pops in the quarters, the machine devours them hungrily, and she gives it it’s sweet release with the press of that trademark eCola button. No release. Nothing comes out. She presses it again, and the mistake repeats itself. Once more. Then she turns.

“You get yours?”

The noise he makes is the sophomoric lovechild of a moan and a giggle. She knows not yet whether to be disgusted or intrigued.

"Not yet." He chirps. "But I _always_ get mine, baby. As they say, the night is young, young, young."

As if she isn't used to nasty remarks. As if she isn't used to nutbar men twisting her words like the wads of stolen underwear she's more than once caught them fondling as they harass her. Night after night. Comes with the job. But she isn't on duty. Her glossy pink lip stain is put away, locked up in her makeup case with the last of her patience for this. She twists up her face, and clarifies herself.

“That eCola.” She points to the can that he’s clearly holding, and asks a question that she clearly knows the answer to. “You get yours?”

When he turns, the nameless silhouette takes form. The look he wears isn't confused, but maybe annoyed. At this point in her young life, Amanda is quite good at recognizing when someone else is about done with her. Doesn't mean she'll let him be done.

“Nah.” He cracks it open with ease, and as if to mock her, takes an equally lengthy and disgusting slurp from it, before pulling it away to swirl the can in his hand like a fine wine. “Never got my eCola.”

Her smile is nothing short of sarcastic, and plastic, and just as annoyed as he. It’s a hot night, and those are rare here. She isn’t used to the heat, and a cold, dewy can of carbonated sugar seems the only cure. As she pieces together the puzzle, it sure does seem like this guy has scored himself the last cure in the machine.

“Well.” Her smile is sweet with peach schnapps, and just as artificial. Her laugh is un-entertained. “There aren’t any more, sugar.”

“Mmm.” He turns on his heel and makes to leave forever. “Nice observation.”

“And I didn’t get mine. Shoot, that’s too bad…”

“Shoot, it sure fucking is.”

But he halts again when Amanda’s voice sounds, echoing a bit louder in the empty air.

“And you bought the last one.”

This stranger is strange, and it shows in the way that he moves. His shoulders lift into a stretch, and his neck cranes to each side of his shoulders until a satisfying crack sounds off. He doesn’t turn back around yet. Amanda sort of wishes that he wouldn’t.

“Sweetheart..” His voice is low, and gravely from what Amanda mistakes as exhaustion. “Are you accusing me of something, here? Is that what you’re doing?”

Amanda scoffs. The doors are thin enough to hear screams through, and she’s been trained in the many different ways to immobilize men by using only your right foot.She isn’t afraid of him.

“No.” She says. “You already know what you did.”

“Oh, yeah?” He approaches, gaining his energy from the fact that she’s taking a step back as he does. Still, her eyes aren’t afraid. Her fists are clenched, and her arms are crossed across her tits in a way that makes them look fake, if you only glance. Pushing them up high, high, high, into the sky, but by no means unreachable.

He looks up. Into her eyes, again. Blue, maybe. Hard to tell in this lighting.

“An’ what are you gonna’ do about it, lil lady?”

Amanda smells her father’s whisky on stranger-danger’s breath. His lips are dry, but they’re full enough to suggest that maybe he’s healthy in the daylight. His eyebrows are dark, and untrim. He’s young. Young, and stupid enough to get this close.

“You’re drunk.”

“Mostly.”

Amanda is young, too. Younger than him, chances are. So maybe she’s a little bit stupider in that sense, because she sees no problem in shoving his chest lightly, but firmly. Just so her path is clear. She puts her quarters, cold and uncomfortable now, back to where they belong.

“Yeah, you have fun with that, fucko.”

“Woah, woah, woah.” He steps back in front of her, but only halfway. She can leave, if she really wants to. But her interest lingers just like she does. So does the scent of earth, and alcohol, and sub-par canned cola. “Going that quick? Now you were just beginning to strike my interest there, sweetheart.”

She looks up into him, and reads danger. Just like she’s been taught. Still she stays against her better judgement. Curiosity killed the cat, and the tale doesn’t differ much when it comes to naive young ladies. So she feels that pang of fear, and depends solely on her tongue to fight for her. Lying, to be exact.

“Try something, I fucking dare you. My boyfriend is big, and temperamental, and he’ll kick the shit of you.”

“So is mine.”

Amanda passes that off as a joke, but thinks twice about it after a second glance. He’s wearing the kind of satisfaction that just doesn’t settle on one gender. And he doesn’t look worried that Amanda will do any harm to him, not for a moment. It’s polite to return the favor, in most situations.

But this is North Yankton.

“You got the last pop in the machine.” She explains, her voice like artificial sugar. “I didn’t. So as a fair trade, I’d like to leave now.”

He takes another glug. Just as obnoxiously disgusting as the rest will no doubt be, but shorter than the last. Scarred from use, but strong enough, his fingers grip a dent into the unforgiving aluminium can. Amanda refuses to flinch.

“Leave, then.” He suggests.

And because lately she’s been making a point of not obeying men who don’t owe her money or love, she stays right where she is for a sweet few seconds more.

“I don’t take orders from strangers who wear flight jackets in the height of the fucking summer.” She crosses her arms tighter, and her shoulders knit in closer. She doesn’t fix the spaghetti strap that slides down her arm, or the bra strap that follows after.

“What if I take the jacket off?” His eyes find her shoulder as soon as it becomes bare, and therefore relevant. As if to make a point, she doesn’t fix it then either.

“Then I won’t take orders from strangers in fucking- I dunno’...Wife beaters, or corsets, or whatever the hell you’ve got on under that ungodly thing.”

She hadn’t been asking, and really doesn’t care either way, but he strips it off without asking her, and lets those four pounds of battered wool and leather fall to the ground like litter. Underneath, his frame is different than she’d expected. He’s thin, and dangerously so. In fact, thin enough to tell Amanda that she could probably fight him off if she needed to.

“Well, this ain’t my shirt.” He figures, after examining the roomy flannel shirt that hangs over his skeleton like a loose, baggy layer of skin.

“But it’s not a wife beater, and it ain’t a corset either. So if you wanted, sugar? You could take my orders all you wanted. Walk on out of here without another word and bingo, back to your cozy little mold cabinet to simmer over the loss of your sweet little drink.”

Amanda, who’s eyes are full of utter disgust and a million other things, doesn’t shake the grimace from your face. The stranger goes on.

“But you’re not.”

The surprise is as most surprises are. Unexpected. He crams the half empty can lazily into her hand, and she nearly drops it. But her grip tightens up, and she doesn’t pay it any attention just yet. She’s looking at him, still. And will be for a while.

He moves, now. Not to be threatening. Just so sit, on the short iron railing that borders the concrete walkway they’ve been having this delightful conversation on. Amanda stands by, weary and confused, and by no means falling victim to whatever he’s got on his agenda.

“So is it the tank top and the tits, or do I just give off an idiotic vibe?” She asks quite honestly at first, then becoming a bit more heated as she moves on without an answer.

“Women don’t fall for this kind of stuff. I don’t know where you heard it, but you’d better tell your friends what I’m telling you right now because it’s not working.”

He doesn’t ask, and so she elaborates without having to be prompted. Then again, she doesn’t really give him much of a chance.

“Mysterious, partially attractive man with an unidentified scar up the top of his lip.” She shakes her head, nearly warmly. A gentle stream of tsk tsk tsks. “Bet you think the girls’ll go wild for it. Bet you think they want to know more about you. Bet you think it works like a charm. Isn’t that a hoot.”

“You better mind your mouth, mama.”

She finds that his knuckles are white, and his eyes are looking for something on the concrete that he can’t find up here. Composure, probably. Amanda can spot a temper from a mile away and further on

“Why?” But she pokes the bear, her mouth curling up into a half moon smile. Her teeth are imperfect, but somehow as beautiful as she. He watches.

“You dangerous, or something?”

And then he chuckles, low and slow and crackling like fire. She feels fear again. It’s small, and intriguing, but it’s fear.

“Something like that.” The curve of his lips is leftover from that chuckle, and it could almost be called a smile. But it’s different than it was before. It isn’t by any means inviting. But like many other things about stranger man, it’s interesting enough to get a closer look at.

Amanda sits to the iron fence beside him, just far away enough to hold safety in her hands. But just close enough to brush elbows with the danger that she’s been admittedly scoping out for the past five minutes.

“Yeah, I know you are.”

She’s close enough now to know that he’s dirty. Not homeless dirty, but work dirty. He smells the same. His face is sharp, and his eyes are soft, and she wishes so dearly that he’d stop looking at her that closely. But he’s still doing it.

“But danger has it’s dormancies.” She swirls her drink, contemplating just how many cooties there are floating around on the inside of this can. Nothing she hasn’t encountered before. She throws it back in a few tiny sips. Cold, and a little flat. Worth the trouble.

“And if you were gonna’ hurt me, you would have done it before I took your gun.”

“You did what?”

“Kidding.” She smiles to herself, and only to herself. But she makes the mistake of looking over at him while she’s doing so. “But now I know you’ve got a gun.”

He takes the drink. Without even looking, he takes it from her hands and means to drink from it, but can’t even manage that. He’s watching her like cats watch mice, or maybe the other way around. Like she’ll disappear into the dust should he even turn his head.

“Who are you?” He inquires, somehow wondering whether or not the answer he’s given will be true. She grants him, with some hesitation, a kind of truth he isn’t often used to.

“Amanda.” She leaves it there, and decides it to late to regret. He looks away from her and nods his head, registering it in his head.

“Amanda.” He repeats, with a sort of interest that she doesn’t believe until he does it again. “Amanda...Nah. No no no.. You’re a Mandy. You’re for sure a fuckin’ Mandy. ”

“Cause you know me well enough to dictate that.”

She snatches the can back, and drinks her leftover eCola in peace as she promises herself that the next few nights will not be this spontaneous. He thinks that’s funny, maybe. Because he’s laughing again, but just a little bit. Just enough not to frighten her anymore.

“I know your name, and knowing your name is enough. Enough to know that your name is for women approaching their fifties with more credit cards than toes, and punch cards for every asshole-bleaching salon in Vinewood.”

Though he’s amused, she isn’t.

“Ha fucking ha.”

But he’s not joking anymore. Not laughing at her anymore, at least.

“Really. Mandy is better. Kinda’ cute. Kinda’ slutty. Like you, probably.”

And that pisses her off. So she finishes the can without granting him another drink, and shoves the dead aluminum into his bony hand. She isn’t completely angry. Mostly tired. That’s why she means to leave, as she hops from the fence and stretches her shoulders.

“You don’t know a goddamn thing about me.” She scoffs. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Mm?” He goes for a sip from the can, and immediately casts it a few feet behind his head upon realizing that there’s nothing left in it. “No, no you don’t. That’s unfortunate.”

“Yes, yes I’m sure it is.” She turns from him without a single glance back. With that, she’s assuming that her curiosity is dead where it lies. And it is, for the time that she’s walking away from him, down that long slender strip of concrete that leads around the corner.

“G’night, weirdo.” She salutes him as she goes, an ode to that Military grade jacket on the floor over there.

“G’night, Mandy.”

And for a long time, she’s leaving. But she’ll admit to herself, and only herself, that she might possibly be walking slower than usual on purpose. This could of course, be because she isn’t wearing any shoes. It’s the fourth of july, after all. Broken glass. Dirt. The street isn’t as clean as it might usually be.

It’s not like she’s still wondering about stranger man. Why. How. Whatever. Not at all.

“Hey, you.

But she does turn her head rather quickly, when he calls out one last time. She doesn’t need to ask. She doesn’t need to do anything. She just stands there, and quirks an eyebrow down, and waits for something to begin. He winks his left eye, and the other untalented eye pulls down with it soon after. So it begins.

“It’s Trevor.” He lets her know. “And you can call me asshole.”

  
She has a feeling that she often will.


End file.
